Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

Five Years Later...

Phineas

It’s the nightmare, not an alarm that wakes me. I blink, staring up at my ceiling, while my mind processes how I’m no longer trapped in the Unseelie sídhe, strung up and bleeding. I’m not at Mab’s mercy. I’m lying in my bed, safe in my apartment that sits on the edge of campus at Mathers’s School of Magick. My mind may be grasping that fact, but until I clench my fists into my sheets, forcing myself to register the sensation of fabric beneath me, my body refuses to accept the truth.

The cheap cotton sheets steam from the combined effect of my panic sweat and the ley line’s shivering heat. At least this time I didn’t completely lose control and light my bed on fire. Small victories, right?

I wince and rub at the scars on my chest, trying to ease the old aches that never fully leave. They healed years ago, but sometimes, after the worst nights, I still feel the edge of the blade dragging over the bone. A shiver runs up my spine and I roll over, burying my head into my pillow, forcing my mind away from the memory. Another night, another nightmare.

A creak echoes through the darkness and I hold my breath, listening for other warning sounds. Roark Lyne, my royal pain in the ass faerie roommate, keeps strange hours. I can’t expect much else from the Unseelie Court’s Prince of Air and Darkness...the PAD. God, he hates it when I call him that. He always bitches about my lack of respect for his royal title, one he inherited from his mother. Ignoring his title makes us more equal. It helps me forget who his mother is, and how her actions define our awkward stalemate.

He feigns ignorance about my nightmares and their cause. The closest he comes to showing any sign of remorse is knocking on the wall to wake me up before I light the room on fire. That hasn’t woken me tonight, though. I strain to hear another sound, a sign of Roark’s presence. No rustle of sheets, no footfalls on the floor, no grunt of irritation when he tries to fall back asleep. On the other side of the wall, Roark’s room lies vacant, just like it’s been for the past few weeks. He isn’t back yet, I remind myself. He’s never missed a grand entrance in all the years we’ve been stuck together and I doubt he’ll change for our last year. He’ll waltz in, show off his magickal power, and remind me again why humans like me aren’t allowed to attend magickal universities like Mathers. Remind me I’m a freak and a fluke. As if his constant ridicule is necessary to remind me of my shortcomings on top of all the fucking monsters crawling out of the darkness to try to kill me.

After almost two weeks of recurrent nightmares, sleep deprivation may kill me first. The slow burn in my eyes warns that it’s got to be an ungodly hour of the morning. There is no other reason why this bitch of a headache is setting in. Going back to sleep would be incredible, but getting up and downing some painkillers is the smarter choice.

A piercing ringtone decides my fate. I groan and fumble a hand over my nightstand until I find my phone. I wince against the bright light of its screen to check the caller ID.

Mom.

Shit. I let it ring out instead of sending it directly to voicemail—avoiding the questions I know she’d ask later about why I’m up so freaking early—and toss my phone back on the nightstand. At some point I’m going to have to answer. I can’t avoid this conversation forever.

Painkillers. I need painkillers.

By the time I come back from taking a few, Mom’s given up calling me directly. Instead, a notification lurks on-screen, promising a waiting voicemail. Funny how such innocuous details—the red blip of a voicemail, the single-page letter from a bank requesting a meeting to discuss the foreclosure, the subtle appearance of moving boxes in the garage—can upend your world. Unlike monsters or faeries or kidnappers, you never see these details coming. They don’t draw blood or leave visible scars or bruises. You can’t fight against them or use magick to fix them. You can only wait to see if you survive them.

It’s too early to face her news, so I ignore the notification, abandoning my bed and waiting phone to move to my desk. A click of the lamp and the space is bathed in a warm, yellow glow. I push aside course texts and drag the heavy tome I borrowed from my Magickal Histories professor closer to the light. I’ve scoured the page of archaic calligraphy so many times I have the damn thing memorized.

Yef I may helpe ye to suffer this grete peyne, as god will that I haue suffered it, take my counseile—

“Rightio, Mr. Courtenay,” I mumble, continuing to skim his advice as I set out the tools I’ll need for this morning’s practice. “Brothers in peyne and all that...”

I obey the instructions to the letter as I channel the ley line. Every year it’s gotten easier to sense the river of energy flowing in the earth beneath me, easier to connect with it. Controlling how much of the power to use...that’s a bit more complicated. Hence the medieval how-to guide written by a former ley line host, Henry V’s bestie.

A guide which is apparently still full of shit, since the delicate feather I’m trying to lift from the aluminum pie plate has given up the ghost and transformed into a smoking pile of ash instead. Whatever. I’m going to be successful at least once before I have to leave for class. Emerging from the ley line when I’m this exhausted leaves magick clinging to my skin like hot wax, a distracting layer between me and the real world. I shake my head and pull another feather out of the stash in my desk drawer and try again. And again. And again.

* * *

Classes didn’t go any better than my practice this morning, and my intramural football team’s practice was too relaxed to work out my stress, so I’m practically vibrating when I walk into Thirsty Thursday at Domovoi’s bar tonight. Domovoi’s is a supernatural watering hole that lies a mere two blocks from Mathers’s campus. Between the bar service, the full menu with plenty of exotic options, the dance floor, and the magickal spells and charms put in place to provide privacy and peace for those who want it, Domovoi’s is everyone’s favorite hangout. Its clientele is a mixture of broke students and other magickal beings, although tonight’s crowd seems strangely subdued.

I excuse my way past the outer edges of the small crowd gathered near the bar. A raucous crow confirms the center of attention to be Robin Goodfellow, one of the faerie messengers between Courts. Most of the fae surrounding him and laughing are Unseelie, with only a few Seelie listening in as they wait for drinks.

I’m almost through the crowd when Goodfellow’s voice soars above the surrounding noise. “Let me through! I’ve got a great one for him.”

A moment later, Goodfellow stands across from me, a hand clamped to my shoulder, and a drunken grin twisting his mouth into the illusion of good humor. “Hey, man, can I tell you a joke?”

I hate Goodfellow. He’s a prick and a petty shit and even Roark despises him. But he’s popular and pissing him off can leave you the victim of practical jokes and unfortunate accidents for far longer than I’m willing to risk, so I let him support himself on me and say, “Sure.”

“What’s the best thing about humans?” Goodfellow asks. Behind him, the crowd watches us. I get the suspicion I’m not going to like his punch line.

“What?”

His grip tightens sharply and I fight to hide my wince. “They die!”

He throws his head back and guffaws. A few of the Seelie sitting at the bar look down at their drinks and snicker, but the majority of the Unseelie who’d been surrounding Goodfellow look down or away. Some are brave enough to shake their heads disapprovingly. A troll I had a class with steps forward and tugs at Goodfellow’s arm.

“You’ve probably had enough to drink,” he tells Goodfellow. When the faerie messenger allows another faerie from the crowd to lead him back to the bar, the troll glances at me and says, “Sorry about that, Finny. He’s drunk.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, “’s fine.”